


Tagundnachtgleiche

by elisera



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death, Old Gods, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisera/pseuds/elisera
Summary: Margaret’s gotten used to them. It's been over three decades now since she took over Uncle Morty’s restaurant, and the boys have been coming around twice a year like clockwork ever since. Plenty of time to get used to them and their -- weirdness.





	Tagundnachtgleiche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts).



> Sometimes I trip and write 4k in a day. Because sometimes certain people write awesome prompts and I am physically incapable of walking away when someone says _magical realism_ around me XD 
> 
> Batik, I fell so hard for your prompt, I'm astonished you couldn't hear the thump of me hitting the ground in despair because OH MY GOD THAT PROMPT.
> 
> The prompt in question: _[Now I’m imagining Sid and Geno, kind of like the sun and moon, as friends/lovers/soulmates/total opposites torn apart by Sid being the god of winter and Geno being the god of summer. I have no idea how it would work, but I imagine them working to find a way to be together – at least sometimes – when they both have important jobs/heritage that they can’t simply reject.](https://icedbatik.tumblr.com/post/159297860302/the-first-30-seconds-of-my-day)_
> 
> Shoutout to Pinetreelady for beta duty and having my back. 
> 
> If you want more info regarding the death of the original character, please skip to the notes at the end of the story.

Margaret’s gotten used to them. It's been over three decades now since she took over Uncle Morty’s restaurant, and the boys have been coming around twice a year like clockwork ever since. Plenty of time to get used to them and their -- weirdness. 

…

This spring, Margaret steps out of her house early on a Monday morning to go open the restaurant and pauses in the driveway, halfway to her car. It’s a sunny March day, but there’s still the bite of winter in the light breeze and --

Her hand closes tightly around her keys. She knows. They’ll drop by today, and she needs to hurry, get everything as ready as she can. 

She never knows how she knows, but she always does. It’s part of the boys’ weirdness.

…

Tony’s already in the kitchen by the time Margaret walks in, stowing away today’s purchases from the farmer’s market, and Margaret pauses in the doorway. 

“The boys are coming by today,” she tells him and Tony frowns at her.

“What boys?” he asks. She tries and fails to remember their names, the knowledge just out of her reach, and she gives Tony an expectant look instead. She can see the moment he gets it. He straightens up like someone goosed him, critically taking the kitchen in.

“ _Those_ boys,” he says, running a hand through his gray hair and tugging on the ends. “I need to call in my guys, get them here early.”

“Do that,” she says, rapping on the jamb. It’s going to be a long day for everyone. “I’ll get their table set.”

Tony waves her away, already muttering to himself, and -- they never talk about the boys on any other day. Most days, Margaret doesn’t even remember anything substantial about them. Just that there are two weird boys who come to eat at her restaurant twice a year. She doesn’t think anyone else remembers more. 

…

She’s just laying the last of the cutlery in place on the corner table in the back, the one that overlooks the courtyard and the still bare lilac bush there, when the front door opens. Margaret sighs. She knows she hasn’t unlocked it yet. It never seems to matter.

She hurries over just as the tall one steps inside, brightening the interior of the restaurant and bringing with him the smell of growing things and sun-scorched afternoons.

“Hi,” she says, feeling breathless for a second when he beams at her. He’s just in a thin, white t-shirt, and she stifles the urge to scold him for being outside like that. It’s not her place, and he doesn’t look cold at all anyway. 

“Margarita Alexandrova,” he says, pulling her into a tight hug. She feels the ache in her bones melt away, seventy years of a busy life lifting off her shoulders. He pulls back after a second and kisses both her cheeks. “How are things, Ritochka?”

“I’m fine, just fine, Evgeni,” she says, patting his arm. She pauses. Yes. Evgeni. That’s his name nowadays. She vaguely thinks he went by a different one, five decades ago when she started waiting tables here. 

"I'm go sit in back?" Evgeni asks, his eyes hopeful. Like she doesn’t know how this goes. 

“Of course,” she says, shooing him towards their table. “That one’s been yours before I was tall enough to look over its edge.”

She stumbles over her own feet, but Evgeni’s already there, steadying her with a hand on her elbow. Right. They did use to come by when the restaurant was nothing more than a playground for her. She remembers this now. She remembers being small, so small compared to him, and how he used to pull her into his lap and feed her bits and pieces of his food, the strange tastes exploding in her mouth and making her beg him for more. 

“Tea?” she asks, her throat tight. Behind Evgeni, she can see the first lilac of the year start to blossom. 

“Please,” he says, settling down on the bench under the window. It gives him a clear view of the door, and she can’t remember him ever sitting anywhere else. She looks at the place settings. The table’s just set for two, and usually she’d lay everything out so people would face each other, not side by side like she did here. But it feels right. Of course they won’t want to have an entire table separating them. Of course not. 

When she walks into the kitchen, she doesn’t even blink at the old samovar sitting on the counter, waiting there for her. 

…

“Here you go,” she says, setting the cup of tea down in front of him and the jam next to it.

“Spasiba,” he says. 

“Let me know if you need --”

There’s a gust of wind and Margaret shivers hard when the unforgiving cold hits her. When she turns, the other one is there and pulling his fur-lined hat off, his eyes fixed on Evgeni.

“Always late, Sid,” Evgeni chides, a smile taking over his face.

Sid. Sidney, yes. Margaret smiles at him, at how his hair is sticking up every which way. 

“ _Someone_ ’s entourage set up camp outside and blocked all the entries,” Sidney answers. “I had to walk the last mile.”

He fights his way out of gloves and scarf and coat and Margaret goes to him, takes them off his hands with a sigh. These boys are always useless the first couple of minutes after seeing each other.

“Made you run gauntlet, yes?”

“Gonch had a lot of useless advice,” Sidney sighs. “He always does.”

Evgeni laughs and Sidney rolls his eyes, pointedly turning away from him and towards Margaret. He takes her hands into his. 

“Hey, Maggie,” he says, grinning. “It’s good to see you.”

Clarity sweeps over her, just like that gust of wind did, and oh, their visits always leave her feeling decades younger.

“It’s always a pleasure to have you two,” she says. She squeezes his hands. “Go sit with your boy, I’ll bring you some coffee, and then we’ll talk about what you want to eat today.”

Sid leans in and kisses her temple. “I’m starving,” he says. 

“Good,” she answers. Margaret makes herself let go of him and walks back the kitchen. She looks back at them before stepping through the door, and they’re standing close together now. As she watches, Evgeni lifts Sidney’s hand, pressing his lips to Sidney’s palm, and Margaret remembers herself just as Sidney cups the back of Evgeni’s head with his free hand and pulls him in for a kiss. 

Her eyes slide away and land on the lilac bush. It’s in full bloom already, entirely unaffected by the now softly falling snow.

…

The tone in a restaurant kitchen is short and to the point on the good days, outright mean on the bad ones. 

Tony’s run the kitchen for Margaret for two decades now, and he’s calm enough to keep it short and pointed most days, and even manages outright cheerfulness on some.

But Margaret only walks into the kitchen to the radio playing and the kitchen crew dancing and singing along on the days the boys visit. 

Everyone’s in a good mood and excited, cooking everything from culinary extravaganzas to simple pleasures. There’s not a cookbook in sight, everyone working from perfect memory. And time -- it works different today. Sidney can tell her that he could go for some pulled pork and coleslaw next while Evgeni makes noises about wanting paella and when she walks out of the kitchen with both dishes, the clock in the restaurant will tell her it’s only been ten minutes since she left to let the kitchen know. 

The food never runs out on these days either, the walk-in fridge and freezer filled with everything they need, and the bar is stocked with anything anyone could desire. And Margaret knows. She knows exactly who’s sitting in her restaurant right now and squabbling over the last of the lumpia.

It doesn’t change anything. She loves these days and, right now, serving up bibimbap, fajitas, twice-baked potatoes, raita, coq au vin, unagi, jollof rice, all kinds of sushi -- she can’t regret it that by this time tomorrow, she won’t remember any of it beyond them being _weird_. 

…

“Sit, sit, Ritochka,” Evgeni says long after sundown, tugging gently on Margaret’s sleeve when she’s set down the last of the desserts. “Bring glass, your favorite wine, and sit. Talk to me!” He points at Sid who’s surrounded by two dozen dessert dishes, absolutely transfixed as he breaks through the layer of caramel on a dish of crème brûlée. “Sid not talk for a while now.”

“Bite me,” Sidney says just before he shoves a spoonful of crème brûlée into his mouth. He sinks back against Evgeni’s side with a blissed-out face. 

The others are cleaning up the kitchen now and snacking on the leftovers, breaking open heavy bottles of wine so old they’ve never had labels to take curious sips; Margaret can let herself have this. 

She goes to get herself a wine glass, and there’s an unopened bottle of 1947 Lafleur sitting on the bar, waiting for her. She shakes her head at Evgeni.

“What?” he asks, his face angelic, and a wave of helpless joy washes over her.

“Thank you,” she says, bringing the bottle and a glass over. 

“No, _thank you_ ,” Sidney says, his mouth full of dadar gulung. Evgeni sighs at him, steals one of the pieces of baklava. He ignores Sidney giving him a dirty look.

“How are you? Honestly?” Evgeni asks before popping it into his mouth.

“Well,” she says, sinking down on the chair opposite them. “I’m old and therefore creaky. But that’s to be expected.”

“Da,” Evgeni says. “That is how it goes; life.”

Sidney nods, gives her an assessing look. “You have years upon years, left, Maggie. Good years.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” she says, toasting him with her glass. 

Sid smiles at her before picking through the pile of daifuku mochi in front of him.

“You can,” Evgeni says. He touches the back of Sidney’s head for a second. “Winter always knows when it comes for you.”

“Geno,” Sidney says, quietly, in warning, and Margaret moves on. She’s not in the mood to talk about that. Not when she has news that’s relevant to them. 

“I’ve been thinking about retiring in a couple of years,” she admits. She smoothes a hand over the immaculate tablecloth. They never spill anything. She takes a deep breath and looks up to meet their eyes. “I’m not getting any younger, and my granddaughter -- Mel -- she’s expecting her first child,” she says. 

“Melanie,” Sidney says, a mochi waiting in his hand. He looks contemplative.

“Father of baby no good,” Evgeni says, startling her. “She come live with you? Come here?”

“Yes,” she says. She takes a sip of her wine. “How do you --”

“Summer knows everything about growing things,” Sidney offers, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “He can’t help but know. Especially when he focuses on a person.”

She nods. “I’ve been telling her to -- but it needed to be her choice. I’ve wanted Mel to have the restaurant for a while now. It’s always been -- I mean, it feels like someone in my family has always had a restaurant, I feel bad about giving this place to someone I’m not related to, just because my kids never wanted to --”

She stops. _Someone in my family has always had a restaurant_. She gives them a look.

Sidney pops the entire mochi into his mouth and chews beatifically at her. Evgeni grins. “Since world was young, and so were we. Needed place to meet, da? These places your family made? Always good places.”

Sidney swallows hard and thumps his chest, fighting the mochi to go down fast. With anyone else, Margaret would worry that they’re about to choke on it. 

“We didn’t interfere,” Sidney promises, “just maybe, made sure that when one of your ancestors wanted to feed people, their business prospered?”

“Will you make sure for her?” she asks, desperation gnawing at her. Mel has nothing but the baby in her belly, and Margaret needs her to be safe, independent of anyone. “Unlike some people, I’m not going to be around forever.”

“I promise you,” Sidney says. He cuts Evgeni a look. “We won’t be -- times are changing,” he offers, cold fingers reaching out to touch the back of her hand. “I’m diminishing, and so is Geno.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, turning her hand over to hold his. 

“Change of leadership,” Evgeni says. He reaches over to lay his hand over both of theirs. “But we still -- we are who we are, will stay who we are. We never go away. Just like those before us never did. We just give away the keys to the car? Move to different zip code?”

Margaret blinks at them. “So what, you’re moving to your version of Florida for retirement?”

“Da,” Evgeni says. “Is time,” he adds. They look at each other, something old and tired looking out from behind their eyes. 

“It won’t happen for a bit longer anyway, I think,” Sid goes on. “But I can promise you this: for the service you and your ancestors before you have rendered upon us, your line will be prosperous. Mel will be just fine.”

“Baby, too,” Evgeni says. He picks up a piece of syrniki and dips it in strawberry jam, offers it to Sidney. “I am make sure. All their babies, if they want have kids.”

Sidney dips his head to eat it from his fingers, and Evgeni’s face does something complicated, longing, that Margaret -- she might be old, but she still knows what that look means.

She gets up, takes her glass and the bottle of wine. “Thank you,” she says, stepping away without waiting for a reply. 

…

When it’s time, Sid wakes up knowing. 

Geno’s still curled into him under a mountain of blankets, his breath hot against Sid’s throat, and Sid winds his fingers into Geno’s hair, holds him close and stays in place for a moment longer. 

Death doesn’t scare someone like him, not like it does humans. But he feels their pain at the change, the insecurity and fear. It’s something he can’t not know, being who he is.

Their cottage is quiet around them, the frozen stillness of a winter morning suspending everything, and Sid starts to slowly pull it in, to put the winter back inside of himself. It’s where it rests during the day now, ceding those hours to summer. The cottage shivers around him, expanding, as it wakes up, too. 

A moment later, Geno does as well. He grumbles, just like he does every morning, and pulls his limbs closer, tucking his icy feet against Sid’s calf. Because Geno can stand in the middle of a snowstorm wearing nothing but flip-flops, shorts, and a smile, but a night spent sleeping next to Sid will still take its toll on his eternal warmth. Back when they were still plugged in to everything and ran the show, they could’ve fucked up entire harvests just by doing this.

“Should have picked spring,” Geno mutters. “Or fall. Not icy winter. Too cold.”

Sid strokes his hair, smiles at the ceiling. “I’m not saying Marc or Kris would’ve told you no, but Vero and Catherine? They both would’ve kicked your ass for trying.”

Geno sighs and pulls back enough to give Sid a baleful look. Sid rolls them over and leans over him, kisses the corner of Geno’s mouth. 

“I’m not regretting,” Geno say. He rubs his eyes, sighs. “Only -- waiting _sucked_.”

“I know,” Sid says. Of course, as Mario once put it, no one told them to go and fall in love with each other before they had to take on their mantles of duty. Or to pick someone whose powers were so fundamentally opposite to their own. No one told them to hold onto each other for eons after it either, or to dream of a possible future where they were free to make their own choices. 

“Tea,” Geno demands, “and kasha, _pancakes_. Go, Sid. I wait here.”

Geno turns onto his other side, facing the wall, crankily pulling at the blankets. Sid forfeits them easily. The cold never bothers him. Sid’s spent centuries not knowing that Geno loathes mornings and complains his way through them. That he lets himself be pacified by tea and good food. It all still feels new, interesting. Sid’s not done wanting to know everything there is to know about Geno. 

Sid pads out into the kitchen in his underwear and on bare feet, removing the thin layer of ice over everything. The fire in the stove crackles to life as soon as Sid passes it, and Sid smiles, goes to fill the kettle of the samovar. They might be each other’s opposites, sure, but where one of them ends, the other begins, and Sid can’t help but find contentment in the seamlessness of it. 

The frost has painted flowers over the windows, and Sid only undoes those on the window above the kitchen sink with a glance. Outside, there’s an inch of snow on the ground, gently curving around the greenhouse and Geno’s vegetable patch, leaving them and whatever Geno’s growing alone. Sid takes a deep breath, leaving only dewy grass behind outside. He keeps the windows frosted over for now, though. Geno likes those. 

…

“I have an appointment today,” Sid says when Geno is on his second cup of tea and mostly done with his breakfast. 

Geno looks up sharply. “I am come with you?”

“Not for this one,” Sid says, shaking his head. 

“I see,” Geno says. He slumps in his seat. “That kind of appointment.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it --”

“Yes.”

Geno closes his eyes for a beat. Then he leans over and kisses Sid. “Tell her to come visit after settling in.”

“I will.”

…

It’s a little after four p.m. when Sid gets there, and it’s quiet on the hospital floor. It’s even quieter in the room, only the beeping of the heart monitor and the occupants’ quiet breathing audible. 

Sid smoothes a hand over Melanie’s head, light enough to not disturb her sleep. She looks tired, but at peace, and yes. Now is the right time. 

“It’s you,” Maggie says, and Sid lifts his head to meet her cloudy gaze.

“Did you expect someone else?” he asks, stepping over to perch on the edge of her hospital bed. 

“Not really,” she whispers, shaky fingers reaching out for him. Sid takes her hand. “I’ve been remembering, more and more, from when you visited.”

“You remember our last one?” Sid asks. He saw her four months ago, for the fall equinox in September, and she’d been so fragile already then, sitting bundled up in her chair in the restaurant’s office. She, like Morty and all the others before her, never lost the knowledge of when Sid and Geno would visit and always insisted on being there on those days until they died. By now, since the two of them have passed their responsibilities on to the next generation, they could’ve come by anytime they wanted, but there’s something that appeals to Sid about a biannual date night. Especially now that it’s no longer the only time he gets to see Geno. 

“Of course,” she says. “You promised not to make me go alone, but you know humans, Sidney. We doubt. Especially when we’re scared.”

“I know,” he agrees, kissing the back of her hand. “Are you still scared, Maggie?”

“No,” she breathes, looking once more at Melanie. “She’ll be fine?”

Sid hesitates. “Life is life,” he settles on. “It’s not going to be a smooth ride until the end.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Maggie says reproachfully, and Sid grins at her. He still remembers when she was just a bright spark, a possibility, within Josepha. He also remembers when she was four and kicked him in the ankle when he didn’t share his yakgwa fast enough with her. 

“She’ll be fine,” Sid swears. “Her Peter, too. They’re gonna be married until the end. And Little Tony --”

“Not so little anymore,” Maggie says. Sid tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Please tell me he’s going finish college.”

Sid winces. “He won’t,” he admits. Maggie sighs. “But he’ll be _fine_. Melanie’s girls, too.”

“Twenty years ago, you said I still had so much time left,” she says, her eyes tearing up, “and I’m ready now, I am, I still don’t want to leave them alone.”

Sid aches with it. There’s nothing to be done about this, though. She won’t believe him until it’s done and she sees it for herself. 

He makes himself get up. “No one is asking you to,” he says, thumbing away the tears at the corner of her eyes. “That’s not what this is about.”

She closes her eyes tightly.

“Maggie,” Sid says, “get up. Come with me.”

“Oh, _alright_ ,” she huffs, sitting up easily and swinging her legs over the edge just as the heart monitor deadlines and Melanie flails upright, stumbling to Maggie’s bed. 

“Nonna?” she asks, tears falling freely already. 

“Oh, my little girl,” Maggie says, reaching out to her and taking her hand before Melanie can touch the body on the bed. “It’s okay, I’m ready, don’t worry.”

Melanie hiccups and blinks. Shivering, she turns to the side and into Maggie, even though she can’t see her and doesn’t know who’s offering the comfort. 

“There you go, baby,” Maggie says. “It’s alright. We’re alright. Be sad for a little while, but keep going. Keep living. Be happy.”

The nurse comes in just then and Sid touches Maggie’s shoulder. 

She meets his eyes and after a second, she nods.

…

They’re down in the parking lot by the time Maggie hooks her arm through his and raises an expectant eyebrow. They both ignore the fog slowly rising around their feet. 

“So what’s next?” she asks.

“This, if you want to,” Sid says. “You still can visit and give advice whenever you want, for however long you want.”

Maggie stops. “You mean that --”

“Your mom and dad have been talking your ear off for fifty years now,” he says. “Morty, too. Especially when you gave Isabella the loan to start her own business instead of talking her into taking over the restaurant.”

“The girl would’ve ruined it within a year,” Maggie says, “she’s much better at -- my parents?”

“They’re waiting for you,” Sid says, taking her by the shoulder. “So’s your Eddie. He has a couple of apologies he’d like to make.”

Maggie’s mouth twists. 

“Yeah,” Sid says with feeling. “Here’s the thing, though. You don’t have to see anyone you don’t want to see.

“You mean I can just --”

“Definitely,” he says, drawing her forwards and into the fog. “Works on you, too. Maria Balcerzak has no interest in talking to you.”

“Oh, well,” Maggie says, walking with him even though the fog is starting to block out the light. “Where are you taking me?”

Sid hesitates. “It’s -- your place,” he settles on. “Every journey you’ll go on in the future, that’ll be your starting point. Your home base, if you will. It can be anything you want it to be, and you can just -- stay there, do what you want.”

Maggie tilts her head at him. They haven’t been walking for ten minutes yet, and already she’s straightened up, the toll aging took on her body vanishing with every step they take. “Do you have that?” she asks.

“It’s different for me,” Sid says, guiding her along in the dark. 

“Because you’re not human.”

“Yep.”

“Do you have -- is Evgeni --”

“Yeah,” Sid says. This time he’s the one who stops them. The fog is lifting again. It won’t be much farther for her now. “We are, he’s -- he has a greenhouse and a vegetable patch? A lot of fruit-bearing trees and bushes and -- stuff. He’s really into freshly growing whatever we want for lunch or dinner on any given day.”

She squints at him. “How can he grow things like potatoes in a day? That’s --”

“He’s summer,” Sid says, feeling himself smile widely. “That’s -- no one can change that about him.”

“Huh,” she says. “And you’re okay, too?”

“I am,” Sid says. “You need summer and winter, and spring and fall, too. You need the change, and we’re -- it’s not always easy. But an eternal summer is taxing on the soil.”

“The soil,” Maggie says flatly. “That’s definitely what I asked about.”

Sid laughs and draws her out of the last of the fog and onto the beach. Maggie stares at her little house on stilts incredulously. 

“He wants you to visit soon,” he says, lifting one of her hands to kiss her knuckles. “Once you’re settled in.”

She turns her wide eyes onto him. “But how will I -- how can I --”

“You’ll know,” Sid says, pushing her forwards. “Now go explore. This place has been waiting for you since the day you were born.”

…

It’s dark already by the time Sid makes it back home, frost icing over the ground with his every step.

The cottage is asleep when he steps inside, wooden beams merely creaking in acknowledgment of his presence, and Sid doesn’t linger. 

He ignores the still steaming food left out for him by Geno; he can’t eat anything right now. It doesn’t matter. The food will be good until Geno withdraws his will from it anyway. 

Stripping down to his skin only takes him a minute, and Sid does it with his gaze fixed on the lump hidden beneath the covers on their bed.

The air’s cold now, winter having taken over, and Geno shivers when Sid lifts the covers, crawls inside.

“She okay?” Geno asks, and Sid nods, presses close until he can hide his face in Geno’s neck. 

“She will be.”

“Then sleep,” Geno says, his arms tight around Sid. “Morning soon, I will need breakfast, you better rest now.”

“Gotcha,” Sid says, pressing closer with a smile. He already feels lighter, just from being home again. 

…

The morning brings sunshine, Geno stumbling outside to get fresh tomatoes and basil buck naked, and a pile of letters sitting in the basket beside their doorstep. 

There’s one letter from Marc that’s ninety-eight percent just him complaining about Sid and Geno deciding to forgo a lot of human inventions at their place and _having a cell phone won’t kill you, but anyway, come over for dinner tonight_. 

Sid strokes over Marc’s scrawl, feeling his exasperation rise off it. He sets the letter aside for Geno to read after he’s returned from his quest and makes himself busy getting the rest of breakfast ready.

Sid loves the quiet of their after. He loves that it’s finally just them, because waiting for this, for Geno, was -- hard is a too small word for it. There were times where it felt unbearable to lead his court and guide nature and the fate of humankind without Geno at his side. Sometimes, the equinoxes they spent together made everything feel worse after, like the fragile hope within Sid was about the break apart under the constant pressure. 

In human years, they’ve had this life for quite some time already, but Sid is still getting used to Geno being within arm’s reach at all times. To seeing him whenever he wants to, without having to wait for the two days a year both their powers were at their weakest.

He’s not used to _dinner with friends_ yet, either. 

“Sid?” Geno asks, lingering in the doorway with a basket full of ripe tomatoes and a bundle of basil in his hand. He’s still naked. Sid feels his frown melt away.

“Just thinking about times gone by,” Sid says. Geno huffs.

“Better think about me being naked,” Geno says. “You even look outside? Watch?”

Sid rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to advertise the goods,” he says, pulling Geno in with a hand on his hip. 

“No?” Geno asks, setting the basket and the basil down on the counter next to Sid. “You like?”

Sid presses a kiss to his jaw. “I do.”

Geno crowds closer. “You better show me.”

“You don’t want breakfast?” Sid says, coming easily when Geno starts to tow him towards their bedroom.

“Want you more than anything,” Geno says, and -- yeah. 

“Same,” Sid says. He tumbles into bed when Geno gives him a shove, opening his arms for him when Geno follows him down. Food is just a simple pleasure anyway, nothing they need. But this -- Geno, here, like this -- Sid needs that. He needs him.

**Author's Note:**

> Original character death: a good portion of this story is told from an outsider POV via an original character. The character dies peacefully in the end after having a lived a long, fulfilled life.


End file.
